


Victory in Defeat

by Guardian Of The Lotus (DistantStorm)



Series: Fictober 2019 [19]
Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Sexual Content, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-23 20:53:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21087659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DistantStorm/pseuds/Guardian%20Of%20The%20Lotus
Summary: He doesn't have to say it, but she knows she's won.Written for day 19 of the Fictober 2019 Challenge: "Yes, I admit it, you were right."





	Victory in Defeat

"Say it," She challenges.

It's hard not to do as she says, he'll admit. That isn't to say he is unable to go against her. He certainly could. This is a wargame where winning is half haughty and losing stings but the edges are so very blurred and they always get what they want. The both of them, that is.

He never gives in the first time she presses him. Sometimes he'll act dense, looking up and away as if he hasn't heard her, or sometimes his stare will bore deep into her skull - he saves that tactic for when she's at the end of her rope, it does her in like none other - but he never, ever gives in right away.

"You'll have to do a little better than that, Hawthorne," He says, rigidly. As if she cannot see the way his bare chest heaves with each breath, the way he hangs heavy and full and so very clearly ready to move on with things. But his mind is a temple, forged in iron and every bit as strong.

At some point, though, she catches on. Gone are the witty remarks, the mind games. She circles him, sizing him up. Her eyes are hungry. Predatory. She's not engaging his mind now. If he follows her, lets her engage his body, it's an easy win.

The rules of this engagement are simple. Submit. One of them has to get the other to admit something. In this case, Suraya wants to hear that she's right. That, as she'd predicted, the faction leaders were, in fact, being held to higher standards because of the clans she'd implemented - a benefit he didn't believe would come to fruition when he'd asked her to take up the mantle as clan overseer, liaison- he hisses as she strokes him, fingers gentle on hot, straining flesh -whatever.

He resists the urge to tilt his head back. Bearing his neck is an invitation for her to bite it, and giving away more than the obvious is a slippery slope he'd like to resist for a little while longer.

Some part of him knows he's lost this one. It's obvious in the way she licks her lips. She's one of very few who have bested him when on their knees- their eyes meet, like clear skies and mossy ground, opposites that surely attract -and her eyebrow goes up. A trick stolen from his arsenal, but not perfectly imitated. Not imitated at all, really, but he needs to gain ground however he can.

"Something have your interest?" He asks her.

She purses her lips. That is a move that is all her. Coolly, she replies, "Nothing more than usual," But her hand never stops sliding across his dick.

Internally, something in his brain stalls. Part of it is her hand cupping him, gentle on his balls and then so firm and- fuck, don't moan, he coaches himself -perfect on his cock. The other part is his overthinking mind. She knows just how to get him caught up in it. From thinking about how to keep up the ruse, to go back to quipping and bickering and things that will prolong this torture to make the payoff so very, very rewarding to making his brain catch on a simple utterance: is she always interested in having her hands on his dick? Is it a play or is this something she has to push out of her mind when she's taking names during their round-table debates, during Consensus meetings? It can't be just a ploy, he thinks, sucking a hard gasp through his teeth. He's missed her licking a stripe down her other hand and switching which one is stroking him.

Oh, he realizes, she wasn't using her dominant hand before, either. Fuck.

She speeds up and his hands clench at his sides. Touching is defeat, too, and he can control himself. He is iron. Steel. Tempered and forged. He bites his tongue just enough to swallow a groan because she's going to push him right over the edge. Making him come is a disqualification, renders the exchange null-and-void, but it's welcome. If feels so good, her hand, pulling and twisting to the wardrum that is his heartbeat, slicked up with his pre. Just a little more, and-

Nothing.

What?

_What?_

"You can sit on the bed if you like," Hawthorne rasps, looking right at his cock. Her eyes flick up to his and back down. She swallows.

"So you can loom over me like a hungry cheetah?"

"Cheetah?" Her eyes glimmer. "Have you ever seen a cheetah?"

"No, but-"

She drops to her knees and takes him in her mouth, her eyes saying, 'Fine, don't sit, this works for me.' 

Something, he tries to regroup, he was saying something, but it's gone. Lost. He's trying not to rock into her, to let her know this is really doing it for him-

But she knows, she always does, and she wraps her arms around his thighs and urges him to thrust. 

Fuck, the next time the roles are reversed, he's not going to stop, even when she begs.

Suraya pulls off him, swiping at her mouth with the back of her hand. "I'm sorry," Her eyes narrow, and he has just enough wherewithal to know that she's not, she's never been less sorry in her entire life, "Did you just say you're going to make me beg?"

"I-" Did he say that out loud? His mouth opens and closes.

She presses herself to him, purposely letting his fingers twitch right against the apex of her thighs. She knows he wants to touch. Wants to make her a mess. They're always so in control and sometimes the sex is sloppy and fast and it's like taking the edge off so when they get time they can make it last.

"Do you know how sure I was that I was right?" She asks, soft. She pulls back from him, pacing in front of him, still dressed in all but that trademark poncho and well-worn boots."I asked your Ghost to get your shift covered tonight. No cop outs. No 'continuing later,'" She air quotes, "As you've so cruelly done to me in the past."

"You were that sure?" He blinks, wide-eyed. She's rarely that confident.

"Say it."

The word flies off his tongue with ease. "No."

"Glutton for punishment?" She grins.

He smirks back at her as well, grateful for the reprieve. Her hands are clasped behind her back. "You were hoping I'd say no."

"Absolutely." She throws herself onto the bed, nothing elegant or charming about it, but she wrestles her socks off and flexes her newly freed toes. "You need to work for it. You're still not thinking with this," She nudges his length with the soft skin of her instep, brows rising and falling in challenge. "I'll take that over you admitting I'm right, just so you know."

Getting him out of his head entirely? She's got lofty goals. He can take it. She's got maybe half of the patience he has, if she's not wound up(and she is). He can see the gooseflesh on the top of her arms, can feel the heat of her gaze and her breath, even the way she kisses him is impatient. He can outlast her.

-/

No, he can't.

-/

His hips are jerking. Not terribly hard, rocking is probably a better word, but he's not the kind of guy who loses control and ruts up without thinking, who allows himself the ability to be placed in someone else's hands.

Not unless she makes him that way. She's taken great care, alternated between working him nearly to the edge and holding him there to easing him down. Relaxing him. He didn't even realize it until she had him on the edge of the bed, no longer letting him watch her hand work it's magic, deciding to knead his shoulders with strong fingers instead.

She takes him apart. Slowly, methodically, strips away the overthinking notions - who needs him, where he's got to be tomorrow, what has to be done first and what's the most the most important item on his agenda - until she asks him questions and the answers are lost in hums and moans.

When she finally stops dragging her hair across his chest - short though it is, he likes the feel of it - and slips her hand down to his leaking, neglected cock, his eyes shock open and find hers and it's like she's hit a livewire. She almost feels bad. Almost.

Except it's considerably more easy for him to get this response out of her. It's impressive, really. She's pretty sure she's babbled that to him plenty. In any case.

"Say it?" She queries, never slowing down her pace.

"Say what?" He asks, big blue eyes wide and lost and high, so very high, on pleasure.

Oh, she thinks. This is a moment to savor. She wins. But it's not her victory she wants to gloat about. This is huge for him. She's never seen him fuckstruck but Light and stars, is it worth it.

"Tell me what you want," She instructs him.

"I," He pants. There's only one word he can find. "Please."

"Please?"

He swallows thickly and nods, eyes falling shut as she continues that bruising pace. His hands fist the bedcovers so hard she's sure he's made pulls in the fabric.

"I've got you," She says, realizing precisely what's happening here. This is trust. She has the reins, she's in charge. No guises or sex games or who's right. None of that matters. "You're gonna come so hard," She tells him, a little awed at what this has turned into. They're so bad at staying playful, but she wouldn't change a thing. "You want to?"

He whines and she eases back from stroking once more.

"No," He says. "Please don't-" He gasps, not realizing that the reason why she's stopped is because she's taking the rest of her clothes off. She's finished teasing him. "Don't stop."

She straddles and sinks down on him in one motion, wet and warm, tight enough to make him howl. "I won't." Normally, she'd lean down and kiss him but she knows he's not thinking about that right now. Right now he's thinking about coming and that's because she made him that way.

That makes her feel fucking incredible.

Unlike her, he doesn't babble. Instead, his eyes stay half-lidded, cloudy with want and his hands glide all over until they find her rear and then he's adjusting their angle and screaming through his finish because that build is there and so very overdue and he wants to take-take-take everything she so willingly gives.

Afterward, he's limp and still and she almost considers confirming that he's breathing until she sees the slow even rise and fall of his chest. 

"Still with me down there?" 

Fingers grope for her blindly.

"That good?"

He hums, never once opening his eyes to see how hers soften.

"Good." 

She retrieves a towel and carefully cleans up the cooling mess on his abdomen, tending what slick has leaked out as she returned to standing.

He murmurs something she can't understand, but she's pretty sure he's already most of the way unconscious.

"I'll take that as your concession," She whispers, throwing a blanket over him.

It was, he thinks, content in his defeat, but the weight of the blanket is just right, the feel of the body that curls up against him is a warm, soothing comfort, and sleep takes him away.


End file.
